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 The Journal  (40 ratings)by John Christopher Cook Page 4 of 5 The rain was washing the blood of his sister
towards him and he began to walk on this path of blood to his home. Without
looking at his sister he pushed the door open to reveal that the home had
been ripped apart. The table had been smashed into pieces and the hay filled
beds were torn apart. His mother's pots and pans were tossed around and the
fire had been drowned out.
He began to look for any book he could find, not knowing which book the hooded figure had commanded him to find. He sat down near his parent's bed and looked around the room. He knew the night was still young and he had to think hard and remember anything about a book. There were the stories that mother had read to him and his sister each night before bed. There was mother's recipe book. Then he remembered his father long ago reading a strange book. He had crept up on his father reading as a child and his father jumped at his touch on his shoulder. His father was frightened by something in that book. That must be the book they are looking for. The boy knew nothing about the book other than it scared his father half out of his wits. He closed his eyes and pictured his sister playing with her blocks that day. He remembered his father's words " Son, don't stray too far, and stay near the house!" The words echoed in his mind. What if he had stayed close to the family? What if he was there, what would have happened then? It doesn't matter anymore. His family was slaughtered and his father was missing. He knew that his father was murdered and hanging from a tree in the woods somewhere. The boy sat there for a long while trying to remember where his father had placed the book. He remembered that his father a couple of years ago had it in his hand when he went to visit his grandmother. He and his sister were never allowed to travel to that end of the woods, as it was far too dangerous. He realized that he didn't have a choice he would head off in the direction his father would travel to get there and that was all he knew. The boy gathered his father's axe and some bread that had been baked early that morning and began his descent back into the wicked forest. The boy was still trembling as he started running off through the woods. Jumping over vines and thickets he never stopped to catch his breath. He had no idea what he was looking for, but felt the presence of the dark figures all around him. His fear began to take him over and all he did was run without thinking. He could still hear that wicked laughter only it was very faint and hidden in the mist. The rain was still falling and seemed to hurt more and more as the drops touched his skin. His wounds were still dripping with blood and he was growing weary. He had never been so deep in the woods before on his own, but was determined to find this hidden home in the catacombs of the darkness. He could hear the wolves begin to howl again as the full moon came out from behind the clouds. He knew that they were close and would kill him any moment if they wanted to take his soul back to hell with them. He thought of how proud his father was of him and continued on. Suddenly, he came across a ditch within a row of trees of in the distance. The roots of trees had taken it over and it seemed as if a stream was once there. This place was terrifying and the sounds of the wolves were growing closer and closer. He climbed through the roots of the giant trees and saw a hut that had fallen apart. It was barely standing and covered in vines. As he approached he heard the gallop of the hooded figures come into the clearing. He stood there in fear as he watched them come from the depths of the forest once again. The only stood and gazed at him like hungry vultures. Their wolves snarled and snorted as they tried to break free from the chains that bound them. He quickly pushed the door of the hut open and jumped inside. He closed the door quickly behind him and peered through the crevices of the door at the shadows that awaited him. He turned around and looked around the little hut. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 John Christopher Cook, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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